She heard his yell above the din and the rush of blood in her ears. Once she realized they weren’t going to die, she had to admit she rather liked it—the rush of wind past them, the thrill of going fast. And, heaven help her, the feel of him.
Her right cheek and breast pressed against his back. She felt the play of muscles beneath the cotton T-shirt as he drove. Likewise, there was no mistaking the six-pack ripple of his belly beneath her clasped hands. He felt even better than he’d looked wearing that towel—and that was saying something.
She had the craziest, hormone-fueled desire to nuzzle the muscled expanse of his back, to slide her hands beneath the edge of his T-shirt and explore the hard ridges of his belly…and lower. Natalie’s bad-girl side had the urge to experience skin on skin with Beau the Bastard.
He made a quick left, ground to a stop and killed the engine. He climbed off. He’d parked in the area chock-full of other four-wheelers and golf carts between the bleacher entrance and the tower. The starting line was right ahead of them, on the other side of the fence.
He reached for her and his hand engulfed hers as he helped her off. Much as she’d have liked to shrug off his assistance, her legs felt like rubber.
“Do you always drive like a maniac?” She tugged her hand free of his, determined to regain her equilibrium, which had seemed to fly out the window during the ride. It had to be his driving and not the fact that she’d been reduced to jelly legs from being wrapped around him. From wanting to stay wrapped around him. Dangerous ground, that.
He laughed. “A maniac?” He shook his head in pretend consternation, his blue eyes glittering. “Now that’s disappointing. Since it was your first time, I gave you the slow ride. I’ll try harder next time to make it better for you. By the way…” He reached out and casually brushed a hank of hair out of her eyes—her chignon was seriously destroyed at this point—as if he were a lover with every right to do so. His fingers barely grazed her skin but his touch echoed through her. “Two suggestions for Sunday. You might want to dress down a bit and you might want to lay off the beer.”
He pivoted on his heel and strolled away, leaving her standing there.
She hated Beau Stillwell.
Chapter 3
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, once she left Nashville behind on her way out to Dahlia, Natalie powered down her windows and let the wind blow through the van as she drove the twisting, turning back roads through the Tennessee hills. She could’ve taken the expressway route she’d opted for on Friday night but this was so much nicer. It reminded her of the drive out to her parents’ farm. How could anyone be alive and not love springtime here?
She cranked the CD player, singing along with Seal to “Kiss from a Rose,” when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but she turned down the volume and answered. Being available came with the job.
“Natalie Bridges.”
“Are you coming?”
No salutation, no identification, no nothing, just that husky-voiced question in her ear. Beau Stillwell. She didn’t even have to close her eyes—which was a good thing, considering she was driving—to imagine that voice in her ear asking that very question in very intimate circumstances. It was that kind of voice and he was that kind of man.
“I’m almost there.” Dear God, what was wrong with her? She’d answered him on a matching husky note that implied intimacy when she’d meant to use her normal, efficient, brisk tone.
There was a long pause and her skin felt too warm even with the breeze blowing through the windows. He finally spoke. “Good. We’re about to go to the finals. I’ll send Scooter to pick you up on the four-wheeler. What are you driving?”
She cringed. She didn’t want to tell him. Most of the time she didn’t care. Sure, she’d like a sexy little European sportscar—she practically drooled every time she saw an Audi roadster—but that wasn’t practical in her business. Practical had been buying the family vehicle from her folks at a deep discount. It was nice enough, but this was a man who was all about fast cars, and hers was anything but. She patted the steering wheel by way of silent apology to her mobile workhorse.
“It’s a silver minivan.”
He laughed—the son of a bitch actually laughed—in her ear.
“You try hauling a wedding dress or a wedding cake in anything smaller.”
“I guess that’s true enough. I’ll tell Scooter to look for a silver minivan.”
He disconnected the call before she had time to respond. She returned her cell phone to the center console. “Bite me,” she muttered as she turned the volume on he CD player back up.
She would not let him get to her today the way he had Friday night. She cringed inside every time she remembered telling him to kiss her ass. She’d suffered a severe case of temporary insanity due to extenuating circumstances but she’d make sure it wasn’t repeated.
Friday night had been weird all the way around. She’d seen men in bathing suits, underwear—she’d even seen a couple of them naked. So what was the big deal about Mr. Stillwell draped in a towel?
Maybe because he was ripped and gorgeous…if a woman found that combination of muscle, black hair, intense blue eyes, a slightly wicked grin and a faint scar across the perfection of his left cheek appealing. Her assistant, Cynthia, would do backflips over him. Because he was Cynthia’s type. He was not, however, Natalie’s type. Natalie preferred her men more polished and urbane. Therefore she put it down to the total weirdness of the night and that from the instant she’d laid eyes on Beau Stillwell’s near nakedness a minivolcano had sprung to life inside her. She’d felt hot, flushed, unsettled.
She turned left at a sign with an arrow indicating Dahlia Speedway. Even a shower and a small glass of chardonnay hadn’t settled her down on Friday night. Despite the fact that she’d gone to bed mentally reviewing her checklist for the Morris-Pitchford wedding the following day, the same as she always did the night before an event, he had plagued her in her dreams. Crazy dreams.
She was directing a rehearsal and then the dinner and somehow it became the wedding itself, and just when things were going smoothly, Beau Stillwell would appear with his mocking grin and Natalie would look down and discover she was only wearing a towel. She’d hurry and find her clothes and put herself back together, only to have Beelzebub Stillwell reappear, and once again she was appalled to find her clothes gone and a towel about her sarongwise.
She’d woken up tired and out of sorts, and she’d nearly left the last-minute sewing kit behind on her way out the door to the pre-wedding photo shoot. All his fault.
And this morning? She’d tried on at least five different outfits until she’d finally settled on a fitted cotton-spandex apricot T-shirt layered beneath a short green jacket with wide-legged jeans and wedge heels. Casual but still professional. This was, after all, work and not a social engagement. And then she’d dithered—might as well call it the way it was—over whether to pull her hair up in a ponytail, or her work chignon, or leave it down. The chignon seemed too fussy, the ponytail too girlish. In the end she’d left it hanging loose over her shoulders and down her back.
Natalie had no delusions about what she looked like. She wasn’t traffic-stopping beautiful and she needed to lose
